


feels like we're dying

by karavan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst, Bro is emotionally unavailable, Codependency, Complicated Relationships, Denial, Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Foster Care, Gen, Hurt, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Run-On Sentences, Sadstuck, mentions of child sex abuse/molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-12-31 21:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18322601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karavan/pseuds/karavan
Summary: After Dave lets something slip online, Bro loses custody and is only permitted supervised access with Dave pending the outcome of an investigation. Dave tries to hold it together.





	1. Chapter 1

The room looks like a fucking baby’s den, walls painted in huge colourful murals of rainbows and meadows and frolicking baby animals with weird-ass faces. There’s boxes of toys, Legos, stacks of paper and crayons all over the place and you want to open your mouth now, ask your caseworker if anyone here at the CPS office got the memo that you’re thirteen fucking years old and don’t need to be relegated to the nursery, but then there’s a soft knock at the door and you go still real fast, silent, like all the air’s been sucked out of you.

Your caseworker gets up to open the door and let him in, exchanges the usual stiff, fake pleasantries with him, and then he’s right there in front of you after weeks of no contact, not even a letter or a phone call, although you were told he’d tried. You want to throw yourself into his arms but don’t, not when you’re so unsure how he feels about you, if he’s still mad, maybe even doesn’t want you anymore because he thinks it’s your fault and maybe it kind of is.

He doesn’t look like your Bro. Or he does, but without all the dumb shit. He’s dressed down in black jeans, boots and his favourite orange hoodie, the one you used to steal from him on the rare days it was cold and he wasn’t home. There’s no cap, no shades—it looks like he’s even combed his hair—and you can see he's actually _trying_ and part of you wants to burst into fucking tears but you're not going to do that shit in front of him because then he probably won't come back and you need him. You need him to be with you, stay in your life, keep trying to get you back even if you’re starting to lose hope that it’s ever going to happen because this is Bro, and you love him but you know he’s never been a fit guardian, not one fucking day of your life. You don’t even know if he’s capable of changing enough to make them even consider giving you back to him.

You’ve never realized how little faith you have in him before and it makes you want to scream at him for all the ways in which he’s let you down, tried to pin this shit on you when  _he_  was supposed to be the fucking grown-up.

But then he’s coming towards you, arms out, grabbing your shoulders and awkwardly pulling you into his hard chest, and he’s never put his arms around you before because cuddling is lame. You wonder if it’s just for show that he’s doing it now but you don’t even care anymore; don’t care how fucking lame it is because you’ve missed him and all you want is to be wrapped up in his smell, just like when you were upset or scared as a little kid and the only thing that'd get you to calm your tits was wrapping yourself up in one of the blankets that still smelled like him, hoping he wouldn’t catch you out, figure out what you were doing and why and laugh at you.

You twist your fingers in his hoodie, press your face into his chest, trying to listen to his heartbeat as you breathe him in. He’s holding your body so tightly to him that it almost hurts, and then his hand is on your head. It’s warm and heavy and comforting and you’re trying not to cry like an asshole but it’s getting harder and harder to hold it back when he’s here, and holding you, and all you want is for him to take you home with him.

You can feel the caseworker’s eyes prickle the back of your neck and you know what she’s probably thinking, looking at him with his hands on you. Fucking  _Judy_. You know when they raided the apartment and found all the porn and cameras and smuppets and weird-ass shit laying around for anyone to see that they instantly suspected he was sexually abusing you, in addition to beating on and starving you. You'd even caught a muttered ‘ _grooming materials’_  come from one of their mouths as they kicked stray smuppets out of the way. And even though you’d denied it, flipped your shit at the first officer who’d asked you and told them again and again and again that Bro has never put his dick in your mouth or ass, are they fucking  _kidding_ , you know they still don’t believe you.

The only reason they didn’t arrest him on the spot is because you’d screamed and cried like a little fucking kid at the idea of him being taken away in cuffs, refused to admit he’d done anything to you at all—even the shit that was almost-true—because they wouldn’t understand it, would only twist it and call it Child Abuse even if it’s not like that and you just  _wish_ you could make them understand him; that he’s not what they say, that he was never abusing you, just trying to make you stronger.

They won’t care about anything you have to say, though. Not when they’ve already got their minds made up about what your Bro did to you. They won’t care that he always fed you eventually, whenever you started to get too thin, your bones all popping out and making you look like the fucking crypt keeper, too weak even to dodge his bullshit anymore. He’d always made sure your clothes were clean and the lights were on and that you had a fucking bed to sleep in, even while he slept on that shit-ass futon for years just for you. And maybe he never really hugged you or held you or told you he loved you, never coddled you when you were sick or let you sleep with him when you were small and scared, but no one really needed that crap and you were better off without it, stronger. No one had ever done any of that shit for your Bro either and he’d turned out to be the strongest, coolest person you know.

So part of you is even glad for all of it right now, glad for the way he raised you, because he was right and if he’d raised you to be like every other piss-weak little shit your age there’s no way you’d be able to handle what’s happening to you right now without breaking down and completely losing it.

In any case, you’re sure their suspicions that Bro’s been touching you up, along with the evidence of physical abuse, is what’s making these supervised visits necessary pending the outcome of the investigation, where they’ll finally decide if you’ll ever even be allowed to  _see_  your Bro again let alone live with him, and you fucking hate it. You hate that they’ve torn him down like this when they don’t know anything about either of you, but now that he’s here you’re just glad to see him, glad he turned up for you when he didn’t have to and you don’t want to let him go. You’re already thinking up sneaky ways you can distract Judy, stop her from watching the damn clock, maybe angle for a longer visit 'cause an hour won’t be enough.

Bro rubs your back and gruffly says, “Siddown, kid.” It's weird as shit for you to actually hug him, to have his hands on you in a way that isn't him just beating your ass, but you don’t want it to stop. You want to hold him until he has to leave you again but you know you can’t ask for more than what he already gave and so you don’t.

He gently nudges you over to the couch and you follow his lead, sit down next to him and wait for him to say something, anything. You don’t even give a shit that Judy’s over there watching both your every move with that smug-ass look on her face, like she knows what Bro’s about, as if he’s like every other neglectful or pervert parent she’s seen walk through those doors. You just watch Bro’s face like you haven’t seen him in years and it feels that way, even if it’s been only weeks. Too long for you.

You wonder what it’s been like for him alone at the apartment, if he misses you too, if he’s still mad at you for CPS and the cops showing up, all because you’d opened your ungrateful mouth to one of your online friends and said something you shouldn’t have. Something that was never their business, something they’d taken way out of context and in the process, ruined your whole life, ripped you away from your Bro.  

You'll never speak to her again.

Bro sits there for a while with his hands in his lap, scoping out the room and everything in it while avoiding the caseworker’s gaze. You avoid it too because if you look at her it’ll only fuck you off and you want to pretend she’s not here, staring at you both, intruding on the first moment you’ve had with your brother in weeks.

Bro’s looking at the pile of paper and crayons on the table. He stretches his arm out along the back of the couch, sits back, and you settle into his side.

“You wanna draw me a pretty picture?” he asks. “I’ll take it home with me, stick it up on the fridge.”

You roll your eyes and gently elbow his ribs. “Shut up,” you mutter.

He looks down at you then and you appreciate the fact you can see his eyes for once. He looks serious but then he always looks serious, even when he’s not, and you’re desperate to know what he’s thinking, to talk with him about what’s going on, make a plan to get you the hell out of here.

When he speaks next, his voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper, and you know he’s trying not to be overheard.

“Are you alright? They treatin’ you alright?”

You nod, even though you most definitely aren’t alright. “I want to go home with you, though.”

“I’m workin’ on it, believe me,” he tells you, and you so badly want to do just that.

You follow his lead and speak in barely above a whisper. “Did you get rid of all the porn and weird shit? The weapons? Did you put food in the fridge?”

“I locked it all up,” he says, brows drawing together. “Fixed everything that needs fixin’ and there’s food and shit. Fridge and pantry are full of it. Shit. Dave…”

“What?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose and you notice for the first time, really notice, that he looks tired and drained. “I fucked up, alright? I know I’m fucked up. I know I didn’t always treat ya right, and—”

“Don’t,” you say, because you don’t want to hear any more. You don’t want to hear his weird apologies, or whatever passes for an apology in his mind, because that’s not Bro. He’s never apologised to you before and you don’t want him to start now. Apologising means giving up, and you don’t want him to apologise, you want him to fucking _do_ something.

“Listen.” He looks at you hard, and you think he really is serious now because it’s not the kind of look you recognise on him. You close your mouth and let him talk, straining just to hear him. “Listen to me,” he says again. “We’re not meant to be talkin’ about this shit but they’re sayin' I did somethin' to you.”

You swallow hard and can’t speak for a minute.

“Not the food, or me kickin' your ass or whatever, but that other shit. That’s bullshit, right? They’re tryna say I touched you in your bad place or somethin' fucked. You’ve gotta tell ‘em I never did nothin’ like that to you, Dave.”

“I _did_ ,” you assure him. “You know I did. I told them but I can’t help it if they don’t listen to anything I say.”

He lets out a breath, seems relieved for a minute, and bends to pick something out of one of the nearby toy boxes. It’s a battered old Gameboy and you smile when you see it in his hands.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Ya wanna play? If you don’t there’s always Barbies and Kens,” he says, nodding to the pile of dolls and houses and cars in a corner across the room. “I’ll even let you be Captain Crotchless. I can be Barbie and get all mad at you for comin’ home drunk again.” You can’t believe he remembers the weird, in retrospect inappropriate, games he used to play with you as a little kid.

You try not to laugh and just say, “Come on, man.” You nudge the hand holding the Gameboy and add, “Show me what you got, asshole.”

You’re content just to watch him play some shit old Pokemon game for a while, his strong fingers moving deftly over the buttons like it’s 1996 again and he never put it down. You stay close to his side, where it’s warm and you feel safe, even putting your head on his shoulder for a few minutes. If it’s pissing him off that you’re being so uncool and clingy he doesn’t show it, and you’re not sure if it’s because he misses you and wants to be close to you too, or if he’s just trying not to come off like too big of an asshole in front of Judy the social worker.

It doesn’t matter. You’re running out of time with him and you know it, keep checking the clock above the door and hating it for moving so fast. You really want to tell him you're sorry for all of it. You want to tell him you love him before he leaves but that’s dumb and you know he probably won’t say it back. You think he might have said it when he was shouting, that last day at the apartment, when they raided it and took you away from him, but you’re never sure. You know, though, that it was the first time you’d ever seen him truly lose it and the memory is a blur. You try not to think about it too much because when you do—when you think about that last day, about them having to forcibly rip you away from him while he looked at you like the world was ending and you understood for the first time that he was helpless and couldn’t protect you—it makes you want to cry and you know Bro thinks crying is for bitches, so you don’t.

You take the Gameboy when he passes it to you and try your best to complete the level, even if you’re nowhere near as good at it as your Bro. He watches you play and it’s comfortable for a moment, so much that you nearly forget Judy’s sitting there in her armchair across the room watching every move the both of you make. You know she’ll probably write all about it later on her little computer, making sure to be extra critical of Bro even though he’s done nothing wrong today and you know it’s that they just don’t like him because they think he’s done something he hasn’t. They can’t prove it, and you and your Bro, you’re smart enough to beat all this shit. You know you can.

“What are they like?” Bro says close to your head, and you shrug, not taking your eyes off the small screen.

“The fosters?”

“Yeah. They treat you good? ‘Cause you look good, kid. Healthy.” He lightly pinches your arm, which isn’t as bony as it was the last time you saw him.

 _That’s ‘cause they feed me real food_ , you think but don’t say. You know if you say that to him you’re just twisting the knife and Bro already knows he fucked up there.

“They don’t hurt you or nothin’?”

“Nah.”

“No one’s touched ya?”

“What?” You look up at him and can’t read the look on his face, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

“You know what I mean.”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? For the last time, no, alright? I remain chaste and unfucked with.” You wonder what it is that makes him worry, then feel like shit when you remember he grew up in foster homes and you can recall all the times he implied some bad shit went down for him.

You put the Gameboy away and try to take his mind off of it by telling him all about the lame-ass couple you’re living with, and how desperately uncool they are so that he’ll understand they’re harmless. You tell him their names are Dave and Kathy, and that Dave is the king of lame dad jokes because he’s started calling himself Big Dave and you Little Dave and everyone but you thinks it’s adorable and hilarious. You tell him all about how they drag your ass to church every Sunday and how at first you thought it was literally the worst thing that’d ever happened to you before you made a game out of photographing, rating and chronicling the ugliest and most visually offensive hats each week. You thought Bro would appreciate it.

He’s silent for too long and when you look at him, his jaw is clenched and his hands are tense on his thighs. “Sounds like they’re real nice, little man. Almost, dare I say it, fuckin’ normal. Must be sweet livin’ in a house like that for once in your life.”

You study the look on his face and start to panic because you think you know what it means. Your Bro has just sat there and listened to you describe this couple that sound all wholesome like the fucking Bradys and now you’ve made him feel like a piece of shit all over again and _why why why_ do you keep fucking up? What if he decides you’re better off where you are, thinks he’s doing you a favour leaving you with these dickholes, and after today you never see him again? The thought makes you want to throw up.

You put your hand on his arm, hold his gaze, and say, “Fuck normal and nice. I don’t belong there; I belong with you. You’re my family, dude.” You silently beg him to understand you, and you think he must.

He must know what it’s like to look around and see nothing you recognize. To feel so out of place in an environment you don’t belong, with people who will never really know or love you; to feel like a fucking oblong among a bunch of circles because that’s what you are when you’re with them and all you want is to be with the man who raised you. You need to know that he still wants you, that he won’t abandon you.

“You want me to come home, though. Right?”

Bro lets out a breath and leans over his knees. “Would I be here if I didn’t?” It’s as close to what you want to hear as you’re ever going to get.

You glance up at the clock and note you’ve got seven minutes left. Judy’s already shuffling around in her seat like she’s getting antsy to get the fuck out of here and back home in time for Gossip Girl and you wish there was something you could do to make the clock stop, give you just a bit more time with him.

“I don’t want you to go.” There’s a lump in your throat the size of Mars now, and when you swallow it hurts. Bro won’t look at you when your voice sounds like this and you think it’s because he just doesn’t want to see you cry.

“You know I wish I could take ya with me but we gotta wait it out, alright? I’m workin’ on it, I promise. Here.” A second later he’s emptied the big front pocket of his hoodie and pulled it up over his head. He throws it in your lap. “You look cold. And I got this for ya, out there.” He dumps a bottle of juice and a pack of candies in your lap on top of the hoodie and it’s so overwhelming, this small gesture of affection, that you almost lose it and start bawling your eyes out.

You’re not cold but you put his hoodie on anyway, think he’s more perceptive than you gave him credit for because he must know what he’s doing for you by giving this to you. It’s warm and smells like him and you know you’ll be able to sleep easier in that house that’s not your own if you’ve got something with you that belongs to him. You stuff the other things in your pockets and then he’s getting up, like he’s going to leave, and you can’t be cool anymore. All you can do is grab onto his arm and cry like the little boy you are, beg him not to leave you again.

When he’s by the door, Judy gets up and stands behind you, as if she’s prepared to physically hold you back if she has to and you almost want to dare her to try to pull you away from him. Who the hell is she to say how much time you can spend with him, that now because an hour has passed you’re just not allowed to see him anymore?

You’re crying, and it’s messy and gross, and your throat hurts and you can barely speak. He can’t even look at you but when you look at him he’s strained, a muscle working in his jaw, and you know he’s holding something back.

You bunch your fingers in his shirt, try to cling on, but then his arms are around you again and he’s saying, “Don’t do this to me, kid,” like you’re actually hurting him and you know you need to stop or he won’t come back.

“You gotta let me go, alright? I’m gonna see you real soon. Next week; same time, same day.”

You peel yourself away from his shirt, which is now covered in wet patches thanks to your messy tears.

“You promise?” you ask him, sniffling thickly, and it’s the lamest thing you could ever say but you want him to promise and mean it.

“Yeah. I promise.” He ruffles your hair, pulls you into his chest one last time, and then you hear his keys jingling, he’s gone again, and now it’s just you, Judy, and the relentless hum of the air conditioner.

You don’t fight her when she takes you back to her car, not like the first time back at the apartment, and you wonder if next time it’ll be easier to part with him, if you'll ever get to the point where you don't fight or cry at all.


	2. Chapter 2

A few visits later, Judy takes you to an open park, insists you need to get out of the office and into the fresh air. You’re actually glad for it—both you and your Bro are sick of being cooped up in that CPS fish bowl each week—but you try not to show her that you’re pleased about it. You try not to interact with her at all if you can help it.

She must sense you’re worried about something, though, because she assures you that yes, she’s arranged it all with your Bro—he knows where to meet you and has promised he’ll be right there waiting for you.

He’s not.

You sit on a chipped old bench overlooking the pond and wait for him, bite your nails, try not to check the time on your phone screen every ten seconds. When he’s five minutes late you want to call him, but that’s before you remember that you can’t. He’s not allowed to call you on your cell anymore, and you’re not allowed to call him either. He isn’t even allowed to _have_ your number, and if he ever wants to speak to you directly he has to get the approval of about ten different people before they’ll even let him call you and so you’re aware that’s probably why he doesn’t anymore.

You know he tries but they make everything too hard for him on purpose, because they want him to fail. They’ll never see him as anything other than the violent pervert who hit you and exposed you to all kinds of things a kid had no business being exposed to, and no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to get them to see him the way that you do.

You wonder if this is it—if this is the day he decides he’s had enough of the constant scrutiny and just doesn’t show up.

Against a dreary December sky, the city looms big in the distance. You find yourself staring longingly at that familiar skyline, wishing you were back there with your Bro and not stuck in suburban hell with a family that act like they’re straight out of a seventies sitcom.

When another ten minutes passes, no sign of Bro, you glance over at Judy, who’s got her face glued to her phone. You know it doesn’t matter to her at all whether or not your Bro shows up, and that if you express your concern to her she’s probably not going to do anything about it. You know she’d most likely prefer it if he just _doesn’t_ show up. Gets her home earlier and she doesn’t have to do as much paperwork later. Just a simple entry in the notes for today: _no-show._

Just when you’re sure he’s not coming, someone calls your name and you spin around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Your Bro’s jogging towards you from across the lawn and you leap up and over the bench, running to catch up to him.

You throw yourself into his arms first and he holds you back tight now, even lifts you a little so you’re off your feet for a few seconds. When he puts you down, without saying a word you grab his hand and drag him past the bench and over to the fence by the pond, far enough away that Judy can see you both but can’t hear you.

When you finally get a good look at your Bro, the first thing you notice is that he looks rough. Like, real rough. His clothes are crumpled, like he hasn’t changed out of them since last night, and there’s some scruff on his face, like he hasn’t shaved or showered yet.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re late, man. What happened this morning—you sleep in or something?”

Bro scrubs a hand over his face, and it doesn’t escape your notice that he won’t look you in your eyes. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, kid.”

You watch him closely for a few more minutes—get a good look at his pupils, the way his eyes dart around; how he can’t stop jiggling his leg or grinding his jaw—and it dawns on you like the rush of an oncoming train.

You let out a humourless laugh. “Holy shit. You’re fucked up right now, aren’t you?”

“What?” Bro scoffs, but he can’t even look at you and you know it’s true. You’d lived with him long enough to know when he was on the come-down, because the come-down meant you stayed the hell out of his way unless you were courting an ass-kicking.

“You’re high, dude. Tweeking. Had a gig last night, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dave,” he mutters, and the way he says your name makes it sound ugly, like it’s a curse word and he hates you for calling him out. He’s still pissed at you when he opens up his arm to you a second later and says in a gruff voice, “Don’t be like this, alright, I haven’t seen ya in a week. C’mon, stop bustin’ my nuts and give me some love.”

The last thing you want to do is give him any love, and so you shy away from him and tell him to go fuck himself. All he’s doing is showing you the multitudes of ways in which he just doesn’t care, and for the moment you’re so angry about it you don’t even have the room to feel gutted. You’re sure that’ll come later.

“I gotta make money, kid,” he says, and he’s never given you excuses before. He was always the one who laid down the law, told you exactly how it was going to be or else, and the only excuses you ever heard were the ones coming out of your own mouth.

The novelty quickly loses some of its shine under the fact he’s fucking everything up for both of you.

You snort at this. “By shoving coke up your nose and guzzling pills all night? _Fuck_ , you’re such a douche showin’ up like this, man.” You turn away from him, bracing your hands on the fence, and part of you hopes that when you look around again he’ll just be gone.

You watch the ducks swim past in the muddy brown water, and for the first time since you’d been torn from him, you just want him to go. Having him show up in the state he’s in hurts more than you think he can imagine, and you don’t want him looking at you anymore like he just doesn’t get it.

He’s supposed to want you back. He’s supposed to be doing whatever’s in his power to make that happen. He’s supposed to be whatever passes for your _dad_ and more and more you’re wishing he’d just up and fucking act like it, and showing up high like this isn’t even close to acting like it.

And it’s not even like you want him to be more like Big Dave—Big Dave who calls you embarrassing names like ‘son’ and ‘champ’ and ‘buddy’. Big Dave, who always wants to play catch with you in the yard like you’re characters from some shitty 90’s movie. Big Dave, who ruffles your hair a lot and tells you he’s proud when you manage to not fuck something up, and who seems to actually _like_ you.

You don’t want Bro to be like Big Dave, but having someone around who knows what the fuck they’re doing for a change brings all the ways in which your Bro is lacking into sharp, glaring focus and you hate that. You hate knowing it and just want it to be like it was before, when you didn’t.

His hand lays heavy on your shoulder and the silence feels guilty, though you're not sure whose guilt it is--yours or his.

Figuring you might as well make things ten times worse, you pick at the fence with your fingernails and say, “Do you even love me?”

You’ve never asked him this before because you never wanted to hear the answer, or his lack of one. You never wanted to give him the opening to hurt you like that but you don’t think he can—not more than he already has.

Predictably, he snorts and drops his hand from your shoulder. You know nothing puts him in a ranker mood than sitting there and talking about your dorky-ass feelings with you.

You wait a few seconds and his lack of a response, rather than making you want to cry, just makes you want to punch him right in his stupid face. You settle for just digging your elbow into his ribs, hard so that he actually makes a noise, and you feel vindicated when he fixes you with the kind of icy glare that used to make you want to cower under your bed. You feel smug knowing he can’t retaliate, pin you down and give you the good asswhupping he wants to, ‘cause he’s being watched and you both know it.

He rubs his ribs, is still glaring daggers at you when he says, “You wanna know if I love you? Kid, I changed your shitty fuckin’ diapers for three years and kept your ungrateful ass for ten more. The fuck do you think?”

You respond without thinking: “I think maybe you’re relieved. You got your out, right? You’re just too big of an asshole to admit it, so you show up like this and hope they notice enough to just let you off the hook. You can’t even be a man and just tell me you want out. You want _them_ to do it for you.”

“Fuck you, Dave,” he spits back, and for a minute you think you’ve gone too far. This is it—he’s going to leave now and you probably won’t see him again. He’s sick of you giving him a hard time, blaming him for everything, and why can’t you just be grateful that he even bothers showing up for you, every single fucking week? Why do you have to fight with him all the time?

But then he slumps forward, hangs his head a bit, and says, “Look. I know I’m not what you asked for. ‘Cause I’m a fuck up and I never did right by you, but I’m here now, ain’t I? I’m not goin’ nowhere, Dave. You think if they said I couldn’t see you no more I just wouldn’t see you? Fuck that, man, I’d find a way and you know it.”

The first thing that hits you is the desire to defend him from himself. You want to back down straight away, tell him he wasn’t always that bad. You want to tell him he’s exactly what you want whether you asked for it or not, but this time you don’t. You let him make his apologies, even if he’d always taught you apologies are for wimpy assclowns. You don’t think he was right about that.

You still want to comfort him though, because seeing him down like this remains a new and sobering experience for you. You’ve never known him to be remorseful about anything, least of all you. And even if he’s breaking your stupid heart you can’t stand to see him like this, because it makes you feel small and scared and insecure.

You nudge up next to him, loop your arm through his, and lean heavily into his side. He breathes hard through his nose, his body all tense, and you rub your cheek into his arm, just above his elbow. You know he hates being touched but slowly, you think, he must be getting used to it, because he relaxes against you and stops jiggling his leg.

He’s so gigantic you don’t even reach his shoulder yet and sometimes, when you’re apart and you’re thinking about him, you forget how big he is. When you’re with him, and it’s so obvious like this, it just makes you think about all the things you don’t want to think about.

Like Bro ragdolling your 5’3, 102-pound frame, dragging you from place to place as effortlessly as if he was hauling garbage bags. The back of his hand cracking across your face that time he was hungover and you’d backtalked him and blood had filled your mouth and you’d crumpled to the floor in a heap. Bro dragging you up onto the roof to flail around with swords when you were weak and tired and never stood a chance against him anyway because he was a solid 6’3 tower of muscle and vengeance and you were just a runty little kid.

You wonder if he thinks any of the same things sometimes. If the time apart makes him realize how tiny you are, and if there’s any part of him that feels bad about that stuff now.

The next time you speak to him, your tone is gentle. “Listen, have you got your shades? You should put ‘em on, alright? You don’t want her looking too close at your eyes. They’re trained to look out for this shit, you know.” They’d mentioned it to you prior to the very first visit. A parent showing up high as a kite, they’d said, was grounds for immediate termination of visitation. You’re sure your Bro knew this too and you’re terrified he’s going to be found out.

He does what you suggest and puts his arm around you, slow and lazy now like he’s getting tired and can barely hold himself up.

“You wanna get coffee?" he asks. "‘Cause I’m strugglin’ to keep my ass from crashin’ right now, little dude.”

You hurry over to Judy to ask if it’s okay to go with your Bro—the coffee stall is just around the corner, you tell her, and you’ll make sure you’re never out of sight—and she waves you on like she’s got better things to do. Updating her selfies on Instagram, by the looks of it.

Bro keeps his arm around you until you get there and it feels so good, walking with him like you’re alone and everything is normal, that you don’t think you could stay mad at him even if you wanted to.

You reach the stall and it’s a cool, retro little wagon offering all kinds of coffees, frappes, and baked goods. Bro tells you that you can have anything you want and so you take him up on it, ordering a large caramel frappe with whipped cream and chocolate drizzle, and three extra-large chocolate chip cookies. Bro orders some caffeine-bomb monstrosity and after, you sit together on the hill overlooking the pond, Judy just an afterthought somewhere in the distant background.

Bro smokes and drinks his coffee in silence, watching you as you throw the waddling ducks bits and pieces of your last cookie. He rolls his sleeves up over his forearms and you notice bruises on the insides of his elbows. They make you pause, but you don’t want to ask him about them because you know he probably won’t tell you the truth. Looking at them leaves you with an uneasy feeling in your stomach that doesn’t go away.

When he breaks the silence, he says, “Looks good on you. Better than it does on me.”

You look up at him in confusion until you realize he’s talking about his hoodie, and the fact you’re still wearing it. You haven’t taken it off since he gave it to you, only to shower, and on the occasions Kathy has hinted she wants to wash it for you, you’ve had to bite back the urge to tell her to piss off and leave you alone.

She doesn’t ask anymore.

You wonder if Bro somehow knows all of this when he remarks, “Could do with a wash, though, kid. Shit.” He flicks a stain on your sleeve and you feel your face getting hot.

“How’s your new school anyway?” he asks, changing the subject as he lights another smoke. You used to hate the smell of them but now you like it because it reminds you of him.

“They told you about that? It’s alright,” you say with a shrug. He knows how you feel about mainstream schools and the kids who go there. You don’t feel like you belong and doubt you ever will but people have been nice to you so far; they even seem to like you, for reasons you still don’t understand.

“Yeah?” Bro snorts softly, the closest he ever gets to laughing, and adds, “Betcha get all the girls, huh?” He bumps your shoulder and you feel your face grow hot again, wonder if he’s just on some mission to embarrass you today.

You never know; you can’t tell if he’s being ironic, running one of his mind-games with this whole loving big brother/daddy routine, or if he just feels sorry for you and is being unusually genuine for a change. You know he likes it that way, when you can’t tell, because it means he’s never on the line for anything. He never has to stand by what he says.

You used to think he was the coolest person in the world for that but part of you is starting to resent it, because you just want him to be real with you now.

You tell him to shut up and he smirks, leans over and messes with your hair. When it’s time for him to go again you walk with him over to his truck, where you plan on standing with him until Judy physically forces you to move it along.

This time when he puts his arms around you and draws into his chest, he’s not even awkward about it. You hold him back tight, pressing your face into his chest, and stand there in silence for a few minutes.

When you pull away from him, you say, “It’ll be different next time, right?”

“Sure,” he tells you.

“Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

You nod. “You’ll call me, right? I know it’s a pain in the fuckin’ ass, but I wanna talk to you. I don’t want to wait another week.”

“I’ll call you.”

You resist the urge to make him promise again and just gently shove him in the stomach instead, a signal for him to get on going. He leans down and kisses the top of your head, something he’s never done before, and when Judy steps in closer behind you, readying herself to physically prise you apart if she has to, you don’t miss the look of abject hostility he throws her. You know it means he hates this as much as you do.

She tells him to have a nice rest of the day and for a second, you’re so sure he’s going to hit her that your pulse starts racing. But then he just says, in the same deceptively calm voice that used to make your blood run cold: “You know y’all stole the baby I raised and left me with damn near nothin’. You don’t get to tell me to have a nice fuckin’ day, lady.”

Judy presses her lips together hard, like she wants to say something biting back, but maintains her silence. You know she’ll pour her resentment out into her notes later, which leaves you with a sinking feeling, and you don’t know why your Bro had to say any of that shit when it’s only going to come back later to bite him, and you, in the ass.

Your fear and dread is only slightly dampened by the fact he apparently still thinks of you as his baby, and you can’t stop turning his words over in your head, again and again, trying to find the flaw but you can’t.

“I’ll be seein’ ya, kid.” He ruffles your hair again, gets in his truck, and leaves you there with Judy.

You watch him drive away until his truck’s nothing but a red speck in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 3000 words of gratuitous angst. :/


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not different next time, because there isn’t one.

That day at the park was the last day you saw him. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write. And you know whose fault it all is but it doesn’t keep your heart from sinking in your chest when he doesn’t at least try to break the rules for you, like he’d told you he would.

The official story is that they’d forced him to submit to a routine drug screening, though you’re willing to bet it was less routine and more the fact that your Bro had fucked with Judy and she can no longer stand the sight of him. It doesn’t matter, though, because they tell you he’d pissed hot on damn near every drug under the sun and you don’t even know why that shocks or even hurts you.

You’d always known about the party drugs—they were just a part of the scene Bro was in, something he did whenever he had a gig—but then you think about those bruises you’d seen on his arms at the park that day and you wonder if it hadn’t got a little worse than all that after you’d left.

You should have seen it coming, because you know what he’s like and how he deals with his shit. But he’d never had anything to do with needles in your life, thought they were nasty and beneath him, and the more you think about it the more panicked you feel. Each day that passes brings with it a heightened anxiety that you’ll get a phone call telling you they’ve found your Bro dead somewhere; that he’s gone, just like your parents, and you’re never going to see him again. You’ll never get a chance to put things right between you; to tell him you forgive him if that’s even what he needs.

It weighs heavy on you that he didn’t tell you he was struggling so bad. You wish he’d just said something, told you he needed some time apart, but then you know you wouldn’t have listened because you’d needed him to be there for you so bad you’d pretty much smothered him with your neediness. He’d spent all his time trying to hold it together for you, make sure _you_ weren’t the one who fell apart, and somehow you’d skipped over the fact that of course it was the lowest point in his life, too.

They’d taken his kid away, then accused him of doing the worst things a man could do to a child. And no one had been there to check in on him, make sure he was coping with any of it. Not even you.

You’re so guilty about it that after a few weeks you stop giving a single fuck about the potential consequences, for you or for him, and decide to throw all caution to the wind.

You’re going to call him.

You wait until Big Dave and Kathy are out of the house (they’d asked you to go to Church with them that morning and you’d lied straight to their faces, told them you felt like you were coming down with something and had even googled the symptoms for Dengue Fever just in case they’d called your bluff) and bust right into their bedroom, raiding Big Dave’s bedside table for spare change.

When you’re sure you’ve got enough for at least twenty minutes talk time, and maybe an AJ at the store, you stuff the coins in your pockets, grab your skateboard and make your way the three blocks down to the nearest phone booth.  Upon reaching it you shut yourself in tight, rest your deck up against the door, and plunk a coin into the slot, quickly punching in the number you’d once shared with your Bro.

You lean on one shoulder against the thin plastic wall, already growing hot in the late-morning sun, and prop the phone up against your ear, waiting for him to answer. He’s never been quick getting to the phone, especially the landline, but the longer it rings, the harder your heart pounds in your throat and you’re honestly not sure what you’ll do if he doesn’t answer right now.

Just when you’re sure you’re about to be diverted to his stupid answering machine message, he finally picks up.

“Yo.”

Your shoulders sag and you let out a slow breath of relief.

“Bro?”

There’s silence on the other end. The line crackles a bit, like he’s dragging the phone around with him.

You bite your lip. “It’s Dave.”

There’s a couple more seconds of silence before he says, “Shit, yeah, kid. I know it’s you. Gimme a sec.”

“Okay.”

You hear the flick of his lighter and a deep intake of breath.

“Sup, little man.”

He’s never been much good at talking on the phone, not just with you but with anyone, and so you know you’re going to have to be the one who pushes the conversation forward here.

“Nothin’. I’m just calling to talk to you.” You wait a beat, and then add, “I miss you.”

You think maybe you’ve laid it on too thick for this early in the day—because it’s eleven in the morning, and honestly it’s a blessing he’s even up after what would have been a rager of a Saturday night—but after an agonizingly long wait he relents and just says, “Yeah, I miss ya skinny ass too, baby boy.”

You blink back hot tears and bite your lip so hard it hurts. You have to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak again, because you can’t let him know you’re crying. You also know you can’t make it much further without acknowledging the reason you’re calling—that you haven’t seen nor heard from him in weeks.

“They told me what happened.” There’s more silence and so you hastily add, “I’m not mad at you, I swear. I’m just… I’m worried about you, man.”

“Yeah, well quit it,” he tells you, his tone a little harsh. “It’s nothin’. It’s gonna be alright, you hear? I’ve got that shit under control now and I’m gonna see you real soon. As soon as they’ll let me.”

You pick at the obscene sharpied graffiti decorating the booth walls. “What if they don’t, though?”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

You hear more shuffling around, and then murmured voices on the other end of the line. You’re not sure if it’s just the T.V. and so you say, “Are you alone right now?”

“Nah.”

A pit opens in your stomach, and you try to keep your voice level when you press him on it. “Who is it?”

“No one. Fuck ‘em.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“It’s always a bad fuckin’ time.”

You clear your throat and try to sound normal, even though you feel hurt for no reason you can understand.

“I can call you later?” you suggest.

He grunts and says, “No. Don’t hang up.”

“Okay.”

There’s more shuffling around and then you hear a door slam. You think he might have shut himself in the bathroom, or your room. You want to know what the fuck’s going on over there, and who the hell’s in your apartment, but you know he’ll never give it to you straight and so you keep your mouth shut for now.

There’s a quiet beep, the first warning you’re about to be disconnected, and so you hastily fumble around in your pockets and pop a few more coins in the slot.

“Ya there?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. You twist the metal cord around your wrist while you try to think of something to say. Finally, you settle on, “I know you said not to worry, but… Are you okay, dude? Seriously?”

“Quit worryin’ about me, kid. I’m good. What’s goin’ on with you, anyway? Apart from sneakin’ off like a little shit to call me when you know you ain’t supposed to do that no more.”

You can’t tell if he’s disappointed in you, or kind of impressed.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Nah. Was kinda hopin’ you would.”

You smile for the first time in what feels like forever, and you wish so badly that your Bro was in front of you that it aches.

With this in mind, you say, “Listen… Can I come see you some time?”

“Dave. You gotta know that’s a dumb as shit idea, man. You want ‘em to haul my ass to jail?”

Your chest deflates. “No,” you say in a small voice.

“Then just wait a while, alright? We’ll try it the right way first before we start talkin’ about who’s gonna go breakin’ the damn law.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. You’re right.” He _is_ right, but it doesn’t make you feel any less shit about it.

“Good boy,” he says, and it’s pathetic how much it means to you when he says shit like that, even though you’re thirteen now and not fucking five.

“Can I call you again, though?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you can call. Just don’t be dumb and get caught doin’ it.”

“I won’t.”

You stand there for a while, listening to each other breathe, before Bro tells you, “Listen, I gotta go, little dude, but I’ll talk to you real soon. You be good, you hear?”

“Mm-hm.” You’re twisting the metal phone cord around your wrist now, so hard your fingers are going numb.

“Wait,” you blurt when you’re sure he’s about to hang up. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, bracing yourself.

“Yeah?”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

There’s a heavy sigh before he says, “Yeah. You never did know what was good for ya.”

With a click, the line goes dead and you’re left with a hollow feeling in your chest, like someone’s scooped out your insides and left you feeling raw and kind of achy.    

You slam the receiver down and grab your shit, kicking the booth door closed behind you.

You know your Bro doesn’t mean to hurt you when he says things like that. You know there’s a part of him that’s literally broken, and that that part means he won’t ever be able to tell you what you want to hear. But you’re _angry_. Not just with him, but with everything—how helpless you are; completely at the mercy of everyone around you—and as you walk the rest of the way home, kicking at dirt, you start thinking it’s time you stopped being so fucking agreeable to everything and, like your Bro, just got reckless instead.

* * *

The house is empty when you get back home. You let yourself in with the key they’d had made for you and flop down on the couch for a bit, tapping your foot against the floorboards while you try to figure out your next move.

You can’t sit still for long. You just know you don’t want to be awake anymore.

You get to your feet and make your way to the bathroom, but not yours. You push open the door to Dave and Kathy’s en-suite and stand there for a little while, trying to still your shaking hands. And then fuck it, you’re doing it; rifling through their medicine cabinet and almost enjoying the little thrill that goes along with doing something Very Wrong, knowing full well that if you’re caught doing it you’re going to pay.

Bro had always taken it out of your ass whenever you’d gone through his shit like this, called you an ungrateful little sneak and made damn sure you regretted touching anything that belonged to him. He’d whup your bare ass with his belt then, and those were the kind of beatings that had always made you wish you were never born, made you scream and cry and promise him you’d never do it again. Until the next time he was gone, or out of it, and you were bored and didn’t give a fuck what he thought anymore.

Sometimes you think you’d done some of that shit to him on purpose, just so he’d be forced to look at you and acknowledge you were a thing he was supposed to take care of, maybe feed and water and talk to sometimes.

You study each pill bottle individually, carefully screening the labels for anything you recognize. You pull your phone out a second later and start Googling anything that looks promising, opening caps and stuffing a couple of everything in your pocket, making note of what’s what so you don’t get anything mixed up and accidentally kill yourself. Because that would be lame.

There’s some good shit in here.

When you’re satisfied you’ve got enough to get the job done, you make your way out to the kitchen and help yourself to what passes for Big Dave’s liquor cabinet. You know he thinks you don’t know where he stores his booze, but you clocked that one your very first week here and almost feel kind of bad for him that he trusted you enough not to actually lock everything up.

It was dumb of him.  

You grab a glass from the dishwasher and fill it with a decent serving of Dave’s scotch—it looks expensive, and he’ll probably miss it, but you’re not going to worry about that right now. You put the bottle back where you found it and make your way down the hall to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind you and drawing the blinds.

You pick a couple of pills from your pocket—nothing too nasty; just enough to knock you out for a few hours—and wash it down with stolen scotch before reclining on your bed, pulling out your phone and scrolling through your notifications.

You delete most of them and idly consider pestering John for a bit, at least until you pass out, because he’s dumb and you actually miss him so badly sometimes that it kills you. You push that notion out of your mind pretty quick, though, because John actually _is_ dumb—dumb enough to try to harangue you into talking to Rose again and that’s just not something you’re willing to do right now. You’re not in a place yet where you think you can forgive her, even if part of you has made peace with the fact that she probably thought she was doing the right thing by you.

You lay on your back, sinking into the soft pillows, and scrub a hand over your face, which is already starting to feel kind of numb. You look up at the ceiling until you feel like you’re sinking into a warm bath and your limbs are all floaty, and stare unblinking at the glow-in-the-dark installation Big Dave had put up on your ceiling that first week here—planets and stars that glowed a soft gold when the lights are out. He’d done that for you because at first you’d wake up gasping in the night, frantic and terrified, and he’d thought it might help you sleep, or at least calm you down a bit.

You’d acted like you weren’t impressed then, because acting like you cared was supposed to be stupid or something. But you feel like a bit of an asshole about all that now because it’s pretty much the coolest thing anyone has ever done for you, and sometimes you wish you could tell Big Dave that. You wish you could tell him that he’s actually pretty awesome sometimes, even though he’s kind of a dork, and that you’re sorry for being such a scheming little shit because they don’t deserve it after everything they’ve done for you.

You stare up at those planets and stars until they start to swim before your fluttering eyes and then you’re gone, and you don’t have to think anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been following along with this, bookmarked or left comments. I really appreciate it. 
> 
> Not super happy with this chapter but hopefully the next one will be better!

When you wake up your mouth is dry and your head throbs with pain. Your body is rocking and it takes you a full minute before you realize it isn’t you; someone’s got you by the shoulders, shaking you, and you hear your name, over and over.

At first you think it must be Bro. He’s come home in a pissy mood again and you must have done something to set him off. You _must_ have, because he never comes into your room like this to wake you, not unless you’ve really fucked up and he sees it fit to give you what for before you’re even awake or been given a chance to explain.

You can’t think, can’t remember what you did to make him mad, but you go passive almost instantly and wait for him to get on with it because it’s almost always worse when you don’t. Unlike the times you strife with him, he takes it as a personal insult when you try to fight back.

It’s not until you crack open one heavy lid that you realize where you are. Your thoughts are lazy, trickling slow through your mind like syrup, but eventually it hits you that you’re not in your apartment with Bro. He’s not here, but Big Dave is and he’s got you by the shoulder, shaking you rough to wake you. You can’t believe you’re actually disappointed to miss one of Bro’s ass-beatings—dealing with Dave and his disappointment in you is so much worse.

You roll over and shove him off, tell him to leave you alone. If you go back to sleep maybe he’ll drop it and go away, and you can explain better in the morning, when you’ve had time to get your story straight, make up something that’ll soften the blow, make it look better than it really is.

But he refuses to drop it. He’s in your face again, too close, his hands all over you and then it’s like you can’t breathe anymore. You stagger to your feet and try to push past him but he’s not letting you go. He’s got you on the floor then, demanding to know what you took, trying to turn your face towards him, and you kick your arms and legs trying to get away, flailing about like a dying insect on the floor.

You manage to knee him in the balls, and it’s an accident but enough of a shock that he lets you go and you’re able to elbow past him and make a break for the door. You don’t bother to grab any of your belongings either, just bolt for the front door before Dave recovers and tries to block you from leaving.

It’s pitch-black when you burst outside, nothing but the pale street-lamps lining the block to show you where you’re going, and then you’re running as fast as your heavy limbs will carry you. You don’t stop until the streets turn unfamiliar and you’re sure no one’s going to catch up with you and force you to go back.

You’re _not_ going back.  

* * *

 

It’s hours later that you find yourself back in your old neighbourhood. And your Bro would kill you if he knew what you did to get here—the stealing, the fighting with Dave; accepting a ride from a creepy ass stranger just to get to the right bus stop—but you made it and that’s all that matters. You don’t even care if he whups your ass for it when he gets a hold of you, as long as he doesn’t make you go back to the suburbs.

You can’t face Big Dave and Kathy again. You know you have to convince Bro to hide you, let you stay with him, not force you to go back the second he lays eyes on you. You’ll even put on the waterworks if you have to, start crying and sobbing all over him because you know he hates it when you cry and will do pretty much anything to get you to stop.

You wait anxiously outside the door to the apartment and the noises of the city surround you—cars, sirens, buses, people shouting. It’s at once familiar and anxiety-inducing. Because you were never scared before but then you were usually with your Bro, and now he’s not here to keep you safe. Getting antsy now, you knock on the door again and figure if he doesn’t answer it’s because he’s not in yet.

Exhausted and annoyed, you trudge up to the roof to find the spare keys your Bro hides in the outdoor AC unit, then hurry back down to let yourself in. When you flick the lights on, the first thing you notice is that everything is different. For a start, it’s clean and you can actually see the floor. There’s no gross smuppets laying about and when you look around the living room, and your Bro’s computer desk, you figure he was telling the truth about locking up most of his inappropriate shit because there’s not a dick or set of tits in sight. You can’t even spot Cal anywhere.

You flick the lights back off and push open the door to your bedroom. Your heart twists when you realize he’s left everything the way it was for you, hasn’t tried to get rid of any of your stuff, almost like he really does think you’re coming back.

The only thing that’s different is your bed’s been slept in. You turn the lights off, plant a knee on the mattress and collapse down onto your pillows, breathing in deep. They smell like your Bro, and you wonder how often he’s been in here, and if it was just because he misses you or he doesn’t and just plans on taking over your room, your bed, now that you’re gone. Wiping you from his life like you were never here and he can finally live the way he wants, free from the burden he’d never really asked for in the first place.

You try to push those thoughts away as you close your eyes, snuggle deeper into your comforter. You doze on and off for the next couple of hours, unable to truly relax with the anxiety brewing in the pit of your stomach, until you hear the scrape of a key in the lock and the front door bursts open, voices and drunken giggling filtering into your bedroom. You lay there frozen still, blinking into the dark.

You hear Bro banging around in the kitchen, more laughter, and then the TV switches on. You clamp a palm over your exposed ear because you know exactly where this is going but you can’t move. You’re afraid of how he’s going to react once he knows you’re here, and the longer it goes on the worse it’s going to be for you.

Your Bro’s always been pretty good about at least trying to be discreet with anyone he brought home but he doesn’t know you’re here and you feel queasy when you realize that any moment now you’re going to be listening to your brother pound the shit out of some poor guy or girl and there’s nothing you can do about it. You wish you at least had your iPod. You know you’re going to have to get up and tell him he’s not alone, before anything happens because he’ll be so much madder if you don’t, but you remain still and _fuck_ , why can’t you move?

Footsteps creak down the hallway, his footsteps because you wouldn’t mistake them anywhere, and they make it all the way past your bedroom before pausing and slowly advancing once more in your direction.

Your light flicks on and you glance up at the doorway, shielding your eyes, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness. Your Bro’s standing there looking at you, totally impassive, and if he’s shocked by what he’s seeing he doesn’t show it at all. Silently, he flicks the light back off and returns to the living room.

You have no idea what to make of it but surely, you think, he can’t intend to just carry on with the night like nothing’s amiss. You know your Bro can be an asshole, but that kind of shit isn’t really his style. Still, part of you worries that’s exactly what he’s going to do until you overhear him loudly tell whoever’s out there to get out and go on home. There’s some angry muttering, and Bro cursing, before the front door slams shut and the apartment goes quiet.

When he returns to your room, he doesn’t even flick the light back on, just tells you to move the fuck over. You do what he says, budge up so you’re pressed right into the wall, and he climbs into bed next to you.

For a while you just listen to him breathe, too scared to actually say anything. You wait for him to go off on you, ask you what the fuck you think you’re doing, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t try to touch you at all but he’s here and he’s not yelling at you or pushing you away.

Finally, he breaks the silence with, “You know if they find out you’re here it’s gonna fuck everything up, right? They ain’t never gonna let you come back. They won’t let me see you no more if they think I had anythin’ to do with this shit.”

You know he’s right, but it feels like a slap in the face. You sniffle and wipe your nose with your sleeve. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” You don’t tell him what happened back at the house, after you called him. You figure he’ll just ask if he really wants to know.

You know you’re definitely not going to tell him the truth, though. If he knew you bugged the hell out today because he couldn’t tell you he loved you too, he’d just think you’re a sensitive little bitch and he’d be right.  

He nudges you a few times in the back, which you know is his way of trying to be affectionate with you.

“Don’t make me go back,” you bite out, trying to catch him while he’s still being nice to you.

Bro sighs. “You can’t stay here tonight. Listen, they probably put out some fuckin’ Amber Alert on ya ass. They call the cops, where you think they’re gonna look first?”

“I’m not going back,” you tell him, resolutely. And you mean it. You know if he tries to catch you and drag you into his truck you’ll just run off on him too.

Your body tenses, as if gearing up to flee. You’ll have to catch him off guard. He’s too strong, and if he gets his arms around you it’s game fucking over, there’s no way you’re getting away from him, but you’re small and quick when you want to be. You might be able to get the jump on him if you’re smart about it.

“I said ya can’t stay _here_. Get up and get your shit, kid, c’mon. Haul ass.” He slaps your butt to punctuate the point.

“No,” you tell him, and then cringe because you know what happens when you say no to him.

Bro sits up on his elbow, leaning over you. “Untwist your panties, little dude. I’m not takin’ you back tonight but like I said, ya can’t stay here. You want the cops draggin’ your ass outta here again?”

The memory of what happened last time you were home is still raw, painful. You shake your head.

“Then c’mon.” He slaps your ass again and you figure you’re going to have to trust him when he says he won’t take you back tonight.

You follow him out to the living room, arms folded around yourself. Bro tosses you one of his hoodies, tells you to put it on, then snatches up his wallet and keys. You follow him down to the parking garage and get in his truck, settle back into the passenger seat and draw your knees into your chest as he starts the engine and puts on some fucking horrible country music he says he likes ironically but you’re pretty sure he just likes, full-stop.

You wait until you get out onto the road before you ask where you’re going. You’re still scared he’s fucking with you, that now he’s got you in his truck he’ll just drive you straight back to Big Dave’s, but you want to trust him. If he loves you he wouldn’t do that to you, so you figure this might actually be a pretty good test.

“Outta town,” is all he says, and that could mean anywhere.

You lean your head against the window and watch as the city gets sparser, and the sky gets darker, the stars shining brighter overhead. You drive for at least an hour, and you’re almost drifting off when Bro pulls in at a gas station.

“Yo.” He claps his hand on your leg and shakes you. “You hungry?”

You shrug. You’re not, but your stomach feels weirdly empty and you haven’t eaten all day. You figure you should eat if you don’t want to feel sick later on.

“Sure.”

“So tell me what you want.”

You shrug again. “I dunno. You know what I like, just get whatever.”

He comes back a while later with two huge burritos, a six-pack of beer and a huge bottle of apple juice for you. You drive a little ways up the road, until there’s nothing but grass fields on either side of the road, not even any street lights, and Bro pulls over on the shoulder and tells you to get out.

You both sit up on the hood of the truck and eat your food in silence. Bro gets two beers deep before he finally asks you what happened back at Big Dave’s.

You’re quiet for a long while, trying to figure out how best to spin the story. You can’t just tell him that you stole, then kicked Big Dave in the nuts. Bro will probably slap you upside the head for being a disrespectful little shit; he won’t even feel guilty about taking you back against your will.

You suppose you could just lie, tell him Big Dave tried to touch you in a bad way, but dismiss that thought almost as soon as it pops up. That’d only make everything a thousand times worse for you, would only freak your Bro the fuck out, possibly make him murderous on your behalf, and you know Big Dave doesn’t deserve that shit.

Eventually, you just tell him a version of the truth. You stole the drugs because you wanted to see what it felt like; Big Dave caught you, tried to whup your ass, so you freaked out and ran away.

Bro nods until you’re finished and cracks another beer, passing it to you. You accept it and take a little sip, trying not to wince. “Are you mad at me?”

Bro just sighs and ruffles your hair, then yanks your oversized hood up over your head. “Nah. Just don’t do that shit again.” He gives you a playful shove that threatens to send you falling off the side of the truck to the ground.

His non-reaction catches you by surprise, and you’ve never known him to be this mellow in your life. You don’t know why he’s not angry at you; why he doesn’t want to hit you. You take advantage of his mood to sidle up close to his arm and press against him, sipping on your beer as you wait for him to finish his.

When he’s done, he swipes the trash off the hood, right onto the ground like he doesn’t give a fuck, and picks you up under your arms, lifting you and setting you down on your feet. When you finally start driving again, you don’t bother asking where you’re going now because you want to just trust him instead.

About a half hour later he pulls into the parking lot of a Super 8 and relief floods through you. He parks the car and tells you to wait while he goes inside. You do what you’re told, keep the doors locked like he told you to, and when he comes back with a key you hop out and follow him to the room.

The décor is cheap and outdated and the whole room reeks of stale cigarette smoke. There’s a single TV, a small table and chair, a tiny bar fridge and a double bed. Just one bed. You know it’s sad you’re excited by that but it means getting to share with him, feeling safe and being able to sleep through the night without waking up in a panic, not knowing where the hell you are and wishing your Bro was there.

Bro tosses his wallet and keys down on the table, along with what’s left of the beer and the food. He nods over to the bed. “You can get in if you’re tired.”

You start taking your shoes off and he says, “Wait. I’ll be back in a minute. Stay here and don’t move.”

He leaves, and when he returns it’s with an armful of towels. You watch your Bro pull back the comforter and lay towels down on the top sheet. When you give him an enquiring look, he just says, with his voice slightly garbled by the cigarette between his teeth, “You got any idea how many nasty dudes’ve probably jizzed all over this? Shit’s rank, little dude.”

You wrinkle your nose in disgust and feel intensely grateful that your Bro’s as discerning as he is. For all his flaws, he’s clean to a fault and has always practised good hygiene.

When he’s done, he stands back and says, “You’re good now, kid. Get in.”

You climb into bed and pull the comforter up around your shoulders. Bro turns the TV on and sits beside you on the bed, on top of the comforter, smoking and watching some boring documentary on cattle.

His phone rings and he gets up to answer it, standing just outside the open door. You figure out pretty fast that you’re the subject when you hear him lying on the phone for you. He's telling whoever’s on the other end he hasn’t seen you but yes, of course, he’ll contact them straight away if he sees you or hears from you and can they please let him know the second they hear anything.

Even if he’s lying, he sounds so responsible you can’t help but feel a little proud of him.

When he comes back to the room, his phone’s away and he’s retrieved his bong from the truck. He sits next to you and takes hit after hit, smoking out the room, before offering it to you. You accept because you can’t pussy out in front of him, and take the smallest hit you can get away with. You spend the next hour feeling slightly spaced out and disconnected from your body.

You wonder what CPS would think if they could see him now. Absconding with you. Giving you alcohol and drugs in some seedy motel room. You know it all sounds so much worse than it really is and that’s the problem with these assholes, you think, because anything can sound bad on paper if you frame it the right way.

You know your Bro’s only trying to be good to you, and you appreciate that he treats you like his equal sometimes, like you’re not just some dumb little kid.

When he’s finally ready to go to sleep, Bro tosses his cap on the floor and peels his shirt off, tossing it to the end of the bed. He gets under the comforter next to you and you close your eyes in the dark, feeling totally at peace for the first time in months, shuffling back so you’re closer to his warmth. He throws his arm around you and you rest your hand on his forearm.

“Can we stay here for a while?” you ask him in a small voice. "Please?"

Just when you think he’s not going to answer, he murmurs close to your head, “Go to sleep, kid. We’ll figure this shit out in the mornin’.”

And so you do. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been following this. Not sure if there will ever be more in this series but I won't rule it out!

You’re fifteen. Years pass, and they never give your Bro his visitation back.

He’s unsafe, they explain to you, in that condescending way you just know is bullshit—cutting him out only means less effort for them; less paperwork, and no staff to pay to supervise your visits. He’s a drug addict, they say, and a danger to you, and when you’re old enough you’ll be able to make your own choices about how much contact you’re willing to have with him. But for now, don’t you know they’re just trying to  _protect_  you? Make it so he can’t hurt you ever again?

You think you made it a maximum of two months, no contact, before you were taking matters into your own hands.

You regularly skip school now just to be with him, and whenever Big Dave and the rest of them call you out on it, ask where the hell you’ve been when you were supposed to be in class, you just lie to them, tell them you took the time off to go skateboarding, or to the mall, or to hang out with all those friends you don’t have. Normal teenager shit, so why can’t they stop riding your ass for a minute?

You tell them you haven’t seen your brother in months, and why would you want to see him, anyway? He’s a violent drug addict who bailed on you when you were thirteen years old and you hate him for it.

It’s not true but you know it’s what they all think of him and so you figure you might as well play right into it, use what they think of him against them. They’re not happy about you skipping so much—once, sometimes even twice a week—but hey, at least you’re not with  _him_ , right? At least he’s staying the fuck away from you; at least he isn’t able to influence you or taint you anymore.  

Sometimes you feel bad about it, for all the lying, but only when it comes to Big Dave. Because you know Big Dave might actually love you or some shit—he and Kathy have even been talking about adopting you, if it’s something you’re ever agreeable to—and you don’t get them, how they could love a smart-mouthed kid like you, one who isn’t even theirs. But they do and you feel something for them, something you’re not sure is love but it’s warm and makes you feel like shit at the idea of hurting them on purpose.

The only person you’re sure you love is your Bro, and so he’s always going to come first, no matter how scummy they all think he is.

And he’s not. If they could see him now—how much he’s done for you; how much he’s changed for you—they wouldn’t believe it. They wouldn’t believe he never abandoned you, just became something else to you; something he was never able to be when the two of you lived together.

He’s still your Bro but now he’s your best friend, too, and you run to him for everything. Everything you can’t ask Big Dave or Kathy, or the few friends you have from school. He gives you the best advice, and never freaks out on you or dishes out the lectures. You’ve thought he was cool all your life, but you never realized how cool he really is until he was able to step back a bit and just be a friend to you, instead of some confusing mash-up of your father and your older brother.

You try to see him as often as you can, taking the bus into the city and riding your skateboard the rest of the way to the apartment. On the days that you do, he’ll make sure he’s home and out of bed and (kind of) sober. He never does drugs in front of you, either—only weed and, occasionally, beer.

He’ll make sure the apartment is clean, and that there’s nothing smutty lying about. He’ll make sure that there’s food to eat, and anything else you might want while you’re with him. He even lets you nap in his bed sometimes, when you’re exhausted from school and staying up too late and just want to be left alone.

Your Bro is awesome, and even if he still can’t outright tell you he loves you, you know that he does because of all the thoughtful things he does for you. And even if he can’t say those words to you, you say them to him, every time before you leave, just so he knows you still care about him.

It’s not even weird or awkward anymore, telling him you love him like that.

* * *

Today when you visit you think he must be hungover from the night before because he’s quiet and doesn’t say anything when you come in, not even when you flop over the back of the futon and put your arms around his neck, hang all over him.

You sit down next to him after a minute, tossing your school bag to the floor by your feet, and notice your Bro’s got a stack of papers in front of him on the coffee table. You wonder if it’s got anything to do with the website, and if he’s quiet because maybe he’s stressed out about money or something.

“How’s the business going?” you ask him, nudging his arm.

He grunts and shrugs, kind of leans away from you, and lights a cigarette. He keeps his eyes fixed on the TV, and you’re not sure what more you were expecting from him in the way of an answer because you know this topic is kind of off-limits to you.

You don’t talk too much about the porno stuff anymore, because he gets weird with you when you do. You think he’s got some residual trauma over being accused of diddling you as a kid, because he never wants to talk too much about anything sex-related with you. That part frustrates you because you know he knows what he’s talking about there—when you were kid, you could only observe in a distant kind of awe as he managed to coax into his bed anyone and everyone he turned his attention on—and you’re just now reaching the age where you’ve got questions and you only want him to answer them.

The thought of asking Big Dave or—god forbid—Kathy for sex advice makes you want to wriggle out of your own skin.

But you understand why he’s weird with you on this and generally leave him alone about it. Today, though, you wish you could help with whatever’s bothering him because he’s quiet, too quiet, and even gets pissy with you when you try to hug him. He usually tolerates you even if he won’t hold you back, and even if you know it’s probably got nothing to do with you, his rejection still stings a little.

You sit back and mess around on his X-Box for a while, hoping he’ll come out of his mood if you just leave him alone for a bit. It’s hard to focus on the screen and your controller, though, with Bro sitting next to you in such a conspicuous sullen silence. It reminds you too much of being little and just waiting on him to find an excuse to kick your ass. You know he’s not going to do that, but you can’t shake the feeling of unease that settles at the pit of your stomach. It just makes you feel panicky and desperate, makes you want to  _do_  something, anything, to fix whatever’s gone wrong. And you can’t help wondering whether it really is you after all.

Just when you can’t take it anymore, when the tension is so painfully awkward you’re thinking you should probably just go home because your Bro clearly doesn’t want you here, you decide to make a last ditch effort to figure out what’s up. Because you’re nothing if you can’t be there for him when he’s always been there for you; you know you have to at least try with him, even if it backfires on your ass.

“Hey,” you say after you pause the game, set the controller down. “Is everything alright with you, dude? You’re kind of quiet today.” It feels stupid and wimpy but you know it’s the right thing to say; no point skirting around the issue with it.

Bro snorts softly and lights a cigarette, won’t look at you. “I dunno,  _Dave_ ,” he says in a strained voice, emphasising your name the way he does when he’s pissed at you. He leans over, resting his forearms on his knees, and the thick muscles in his arms look tense. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

Anxiety coils its way around your heart and your mind goes blank. You open and close your mouth, can’t think of anything to say, because he’s confirmed that yes, he is actually pissed at you, but you can’t for the life of you figure out why.  

You can’t think of anything you’ve done recently that might have pissed him off. You skip school, but he knows about that and doesn’t really give a fuck. You haven’t disrespected him, stole from him, or done any of the other things you know he takes offense to. You scrape your brains and figure the only thing he doesn’t know about is that Egbert’s been flirting the crap out of you on pesterchum, to the point it’s gone well beyond what you consider a joke and you’re starting to think he legitimately wants to bone you down.

But Bro can’t know about that, not unless he’s looked through your phone while you were out of the room, and you can’t even think about why it would piss him off that one of your friends might want to dick you. You know he doesn’t care about that shit, but it’s the only thing you can think of that he doesn’t know about. You tell him everything else; you only skipped out on the John thing because he’s a complete dork and you thought your Bro would make fun of you for it.

“You should get on home, baby boy,” Bro says with a sniff, still not looking at you, and stubs his cigarette out in a half-empty can of beer. “Your new daddy’s probably waitin’ for ya.”

You stare at the side of your Bro’s head in total fucking confusion, and try to fight back the wave of irritation that sweeps over you, because that’ll only lead to you saying something you regret and the last thing you want to do is get into a fight with this man. You haven’t really fought with him for years and don’t plan on starting again now.

For whatever reason, your Bro must be feeling sensitive about you and Big Dave, like he’s being replaced or whatever, and it’s so stupid you don’t even want to argue with him about it. Because when he’s like this, no amount of platitudes, of you promising him no one will ever replace him as your brother, or your dad, is going to matter. When he’s pissed he’s pissed and you know the only smart thing to do is get the hell out of his way.

You snatch up your bag from the floor and push yourself to your feet, swallowing the lump in your throat. If you’re gonna cry, you’re not going to do it in front of him. You’ll wait until you’re on the bus, or walking home. You don’t want him to know how hurt you are because it’ll just make things awkward the next time he calls you late at night, feeling guilty but offering no real apologies, or the next time you come to visit the apartment and you can’t even talk to each other.

You’re almost at the door and he’s in front of you a second later, blocking your exit, still as fast as fucking ever. You shrink away from him because the look on his face is scaring the shit out of you and you don’t think you’ve seen him this angry in years. He knocks into your shoulder a little and your heart starts to pound against your ribcage.

“You’re not gonna tell me yourself? You’re really gonna pussy out on this, huh, Dave?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sort of gasp out, trying not to get too close to him. “Pussy out on what? I haven’t done anything. Why are you so mad at me?”

He leaves you standing there like an idiot, snatches up the bunch of papers from the coffee table and throws them at your head. You wince and your arms come up instinctively to cover your head.

“What the fuck, man?”

He stares at you challengingly, as if daring you to look. You drop to your knees to pick up the scattered papers and once you’ve scanned a couple, and you realize what they actually are, your heart sinks in your chest. You feel like you can’t breathe, and you know now why your Bro is so mad at you, and what this must look like to him, but you don’t know how to tell him that it’s  _not_  what it looks like. That you didn’t know. Not really.

“Did ya think I wouldn’t find out about this shit?” he throws at you. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen unless I sign off on it. Is that what you want? You want me to jus’ sign you on over to ‘em?  _My_  fuckin’ kid?”

You shake your head until you feel dizzy. “No,” you say, but your voice isn’t loud enough to break over his anger. “It’s not… I didn’t know he was gonna do this, I swear. I had no idea he’d already sent you the forms or anything, it was just like… Something he mentioned once. I had no idea, I’m tellin’ you, because I would have told you and I don’t… I don’t want you to do that. Please.” You’re breathless, and you know you’re rambling, but you just want him to understand that you didn’t ask Big Dave to do this, you actually hate him for it, and he’d know that if he’d just stop being mad at you and listen.

“They love you, right?” Bro says, and he’s pacing around the living room now, lighting another smoke. “He loves you? Enough to wanna be your daddy?”

You shrug helplessly, because you don’t know. Big Dave tells you he loves you and cares about you but you always have trouble believing him, because how could he? You’re not his. He didn’t raise you. Your Bro did, and you know he loves you even if sometimes he doesn’t act like it. You know he loves you because this is how he acts when he’s hurt, and he wouldn’t be hurt over the idea of you picking someone else if he didn’t actually love you.

“Then you should do it,” Bro says, flicking his ash right on the floor. “If that’s what you want. I’ll sign it. Go to ‘em. They’ll take real good care’a you. Better than I ever did.”

You’re up on your feet then, saying “No,” over and over again, loud so that it rings in your ears. That’s not what you want, you tell him, because you don’t want a new dad you just want things to stay the way they are.

He’s not listening to you though, is pushing you away, heading out to the kitchen to grab a pen and you know he’s only doing it to hurt you, he’s not really going to sign whatever’s left of his rights away, but you follow him anyway, cling onto the back of his shirt, beg him to please please please just stop and talk to you.

He grabs the pen from the kitchen drawer, slams it shut, and you lose it then. You grab onto his arm to stop him from grabbing the papers and signing them because you don’t want this, and you know he can’t want it either, but you’ve gone too far now. You should have read the signs, just backed off and left him alone, because his fingers are curled in the front of your shirt now and he’s shaking you so hard your back hits the edge of the counter and you swiftly fall into a panic.

You’ve grown a little but you’re still small for your age, downright tiny compared to him, and a powerful flash of fear ignites in you at the thought he could actually hurt you again, that he is hurting you again. He hasn’t laid a hand on you since before they took you away and it’s like you somehow forgot how to be afraid of him until now.

It all rushes back at once, that old terror, and it paralyses you, sends you into a panic so overwhelming you feel like you can’t breathe, like you want to run but your legs won’t move. You go still and just let him ragdoll you, and when he finally lets go of your shirt you fall to the floor and cover your face with your arm because you can’t watch him do this, you don’t want to remember it, because things will never be the same between you if you do. It’s not like before, and you know if he does this he’ll be breaking something between you, something you don’t think you’ll ever be able to fix.

You wait for the blows to land but they don’t. You feel his hands on you, his arms enveloping you, but he’s not beating on you, just saying your name and gently rocking your body. You uncover your eyes and look up at him, see that he looks genuinely freaked out that he’s scared you this bad—so bad you’re trembling on the floor like a scared little kid.

“Dave, what the fuck.” He rubs your shoulder, like he’s trying to comfort you, and you suck in a breath and try to calm your tits.

“Relax, alright? Shit,” he says, all gentle now, none of that blistering rage from before.

A wave of shame crashes over you now and you’re so embarrassed for freaking out on him when he barely touched you that you have to get out.

“I’ve gotta go,” you force out. You push yourself out from under him and get to your feet, try to get your shit together, but he’s up against your back then and his arms are around you and you know he’s not going to let you go because he mustn’t be done with you yet.

You let him lead you over to the futon, because you know you don’t have a choice, and when he sits down he pulls you down with him, yanking you into his side. You sit there in silence, still tense and on edge, while he picks up the remote and switches over from the paused game to the TV.

“Don’t go ‘cause’a me, kid.”

You don’t say anything back, just keep your eyes fixed on the flickering images on the TV screen, absorbing nothing. You wonder what kind of game your Bro is playing, where he’s furious with you one second, and gentle and contrite the next, but you can’t keep up. You don’t want to sit here and wait for him to turn again.

“You really didn’t know nothin’ about that?”

You shake your head, because you really really didn’t.

“He said somethin’ about it,” you admit, and your voice sounds small and tight. “But I had no idea he’d sent you anything. I was never gonna say yes. I don’t want… I don’t want to do that.”

You sit there in silence with him for a while, tucked into his side, and he idly rubs circles on your upper arm. It’s the most affection he’s shown you in forever and all you had to do to wrench it out of him was get on the floor and have a panic attack.

“I always had a plan, y’know,” he tells you, and you shift around a little to look up at him. “I figured once you turned sixteen you could leave ‘em and come back home. ‘Cause you’d be old enough to do what ya wanted. Or else we could just say fuck ‘em and skip town.”

“Why can’t that still be the plan?” you ask him, and hope swells in your chest that he really means it, that he’d always meant for you to come home when you turned sixteen. That he never gave up on you or wanted to give you up to someone else.

“I didn’t mean to scare ya. Before,” he says after a while. And then: “I wasn’t gonna hurt ya.” He squeezes your shoulder and stares straight ahead at the TV. “I love you, kid. You’re all I got left.”

The moment seems to stretch forever and you don’t want to break it by saying anything. Instead you just rest your head on his arm and close your eyes, leaning heavily into him.


End file.
